


Among the Thistles

by annieca



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Letters, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieca/pseuds/annieca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bash knew that love meant protection and protecting her meant leaving. But he left her a clue, that when the time was right, she could rejoin him and they would be together. The clue, Mary would realize, was the heart of who she was and who she wanted to be. A series of AU one-shots written for NaNoWriMo</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Premise

_"Take care my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours"_

Sebastian’s mother had taught him many things: to stand tall and proud, to be cheeky when the situation called for humor, and most importantly, to put those he loved above himself. (It would be a lesson she would recant when she spoke of legitimization.) It was a dangerous line he walked when he tried to follow that last lesson – one side involved protecting himself and his mother, another his half-brothers, father, and _her_ safe.

She had come into his life like a storm blowing across the lavender fields, scattering fragrant petals across the ground. She had come with fire and ice and the lonely life of the bastard did not seem quite so lonely anymore. If only for the simple fact that her dog, Sterling, had seemed to take a liking to him and was rarely away from his side when he went out for long walks or rides. But it was more than her dog. Anyone with eyes could see that.

They could see the way that his eyes lit up watching her dance, spinning around as if she was simply a girl and not the Queen of Scotland with hundreds of years of history behind her and thousands of years before her, all on her shoulders. They could see how he instinctively reached out for her when she would trip. They could see that his eyes tracked her when he thought nobody was watching (and hell, sometimes even when he knew they would). They could see it in the way he fought for her against Tomas, even when his muscles were nearly past the point of refusing.

He had been trying his best to be polite, be cheeky yes, but polite and almost distant. But she was making that impossible. It wasn’t her body – though many would tell him it was – no, it was Francis who thought of her for her long black hair and her hazel eyes. It was for her _mind_. The way she carried herself. Though she had bounced around so much as a child and her time in Scotland was limited, she carried herself as the true Queen of Scots. She refused to be a timid _anything_. Bash knew very few other Scots, other than her ladies in waiting, and none of them were like her. And yet, even with her brutal honesty and her blunt-edges she was softness and grace. She was not vindictive, though manipulative could often be used to describe her.

It was those things and much more, that made Sebastian question just why his brother did not treat her like the _Queen_ she was. It was those things and more that made Sebastian question his sanity. He knew he had to get away from the castle for as soon and as long as possible. But that ridiculous pull she had. The way she reached out for him, as if he was not dangerous, as if he was not so, so dangerous for her, for Scotland, for France, made him tell the voices in his head to shut up. The way she trusted him made him want to stay. The way he loved her made him want to leave.

They had their moments. The kiss by the lake the one he would replay over and over in his head when he couldn’t sleep. Which was often since he was frequently kept up late thinking of her, wondering how best to make her smile, to erase the worry that seemed to consistently rest on her shoulders since she arrived. Those first few hours she had been here, she had been the light of the castle, the light of the French court. But that had been quickly replaced by a heaviness that would drag her into the depths of despair if she allowed it. If _he_ allowed it. He didn’t think he had the ability to take away all of her worries or sorrows. No, he was no God. But he did hope that by simply being there, he could ease her burden.

But then he made a mistake. Or a few. He cared too deeply, too strongly. He had fallen in love and now it wasn’t the English that were after her. It was the Blood Cult. And that was something he wasn’t sure he could protect her from. But he did. He managed it. Not without some sort of damage to his soul – and hers. He could see that she looked at him differently now. It wasn’t because Francis had forbade it (and oh, what a moment that had been, challenging his little brother over her). It was as if she was afraid to be associated with him for fear of a repeat occurrence. A repeat occurrence that was all too likely to happen if Catherine got her way.

It was that fear that drove him to pacing back and forth, back and forth, in his chambers, in the gardens, anywhere really. If the stone floors had not already been hundreds of years old, he could have believed that he was wearing a hole in them. Or if not a hole, at least a rut. It took a week for him to reach his conclusion. It took another more week for him to carry out the solution. It would have taken less time but he needed something made first.

Three weeks to the day since he had sacrificed a member of the Blood Cult to save her, he left, leaving her a letter in his room where he knew only she would find it. Left behind his family, his friends, his lifestyle, and her, for good – for forever. Left for god knows where, but he had an inkling it would be to Scotland.

* * *

 

It had been three weeks to the day when Bash had saved her and Francis had forbidden any sort of relationship between them. She had wanted to see him. He had been holed up inside his room or away from the castle, away from prying eyes, for three weeks. That was enough, she had decided. She couldn’t let him flog himself for something that was bound to happen anyway. She had a curiosity that could not be tamed – one that often got her into trouble back at the convent. She would have wandered into the woods alone one day when that curiosity got the best of her and the same result would have happened. She knew full well it was not just the English that wanted her dead.

She knocked, “Bash, can I talk to you?” No response. She knocked again, “Bash, please. This wasn’t your fault.”

The lack of a response shouldn’t have worried Mary. He had been absent from the castle life much the past few weeks. Why would today have been any different? But it felt different. It felt like the ache in her heart had grown. But it was not just the ache that made her worried. It was the blind panic that had started to come over her as she waited for an answer from him. Anything – just a word would do. She wanted to do all the talking anyway.

The panic grew and grew until she couldn’t stand it anymore, and tried the door. It was locked. He never locked his door. It was a fact Mary had taken advantage of frequently both when she was a child and when she returned to court. _My door is always open if you need to talk, Mary_. He had said. Of course, there had been one or two times when it had been locked. But that was because he was trying to teach her how to pick locks – a skill that needed some practice if her inability to do so now was any indication. If she was to justify it to him, she would say that her hands were shaking, unable to stay steady. He would have laughed, questioning her nerves of steel. And everything would have gone back to normal. Or at least a semblance of normal. Nothing could be normal after that kiss. After he saved her life. After she realized Francis was not who she thought he was and it was Bash that she wanted. That she couldn’t have. Queens never get what they want, she had been told before. Never had she thought it truer than this moment as she finally heard the lock click and she was able to push the door open.

His room was clean, much like Bash himself. He was always the organized one, with the organized mind. He had a mind of strategy. If he could have been a soldier, he would have easily risen through the ranks. If he had been given the chance, he could have made a fantastic, unparalleled diplomat. But nobody had given him that chance. Even she had not really given him that chance. She could have. She could have asked him what he thought she should do in regards to Scotland, in regards to what she should have done with Tomas and Portugal. She should have confided in him that she was nervous about Francis, his attachment to Olivia and his wavering devotion to her. She should have been the friend that he was to her.

He was her rock. She was able to come to him with anything. Even when things could have been awkward, she could talk to him. He also very rarely was around her without some sort of alcohol which had provided relief from time to time. She didn’t think that he could do anything to break her trust. Even with the Blood Cult, she still trusted him. Sure, she was still worried about if the Blood Cult could come back, but not because she was worried about them coming back for her. She was worried about them coming for _him_. She wanted to keep him safe, like he had kept her safe, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t protect him the way she wanted to. Not just because she couldn’t swing a sword or poison someone, but because she was so tied to her throne that it was hard to break away from that responsibility.

He would have done everything for her. Anything. It was a frightening thought – to have someone love you that completely. Bash saw her flaws and said it was okay, they would be able to make a life together and be happy. Of course, he never said it that way, but he didn’t have to. It was in his eyes. He had the most _expressive_ eyes, eyes the color of a piece of glass tossed about in the sea until its edges were smoothed. His heart should have been steel – goodness knows hers had certainly started to grow since coming to the castle – but it wasn’t. It was tender despite all the anguish he had experienced in his life. It was _perfect_. He was _perfect_.

As she walked around the room, fingers trailing over books on a table, blankets on a bed, a tapestry on the wall, she could feel it. He was gone. And he wasn’t coming back. But where was he, and why didn’t he leave a note? She walked around the room, pacing and pacing, thinking without coming to many conclusions about the where, when, and why. She knew there was to be a feast in a few hours and she should be getting ready – she knew Aylee, Greer, and Lola would be there waiting to help her dress. But she wasn’t going to leave his room until she had at least a semblance of an answer.

She knew he kept a locked box on his bedside table of little mementoes or letters. He had shown it to her when she was merely a child, saying that all of his happiest memories were in that box. With shaking hands and the hair pin she had used on his room, she picked the lock. There, with the seal of a lion, was a letter for her.

She almost didn’t want to read it. Afraid maybe of what she might find out. But things needed to be known. She opened it, a necklace falling onto the table. It was a simple chain, long, silver and smooth, ending in a round flat-backed charm. On it was a thistle, the back had a saying engraved onto it: “Tá mé i gcónaí anseo." His Gaelic translation was far from correct, closer to an Irish version than the one they spoke in Edinburgh, but she could still understand it. It said, “I am always here.”

Slipping it on over her head, the cool metal rested between her breasts, at her heart. _I am always here_ – I am always in your heart, Mary took it to mean. With a shaky breath and the beginnings of tears, she began to read.

            _My dearest Sun,_

_This might come as a shock to you, but I love you. And that is why I have left. Long ago I was taught that love meant sacrifice. It meant being patient, kind, and always, always putting someone ahead of yourself. Love was more than the fairytales we were told as children. Love was more than all of that. Love was complete and perfect trust in another human being, knowing that in the end, everything will work out the way it is supposed to – that you made the right choice in the end._

_I love your courage, your spirit, your heart, Mary, Queen of Scots. I love the way you drink too much when you’re angry and brooding. I love that I was able to take away what loneliness you had. I love that I was able to be there for you, no matter what. I love everything about you – even the parts that frighten me. You are cunning and the time you have spent in the French court has not treated you well. It has started to harden your heart. I could see it, I could feel it._

_The incident with the Blood Cult, oh, that was all my fault. I wanted to protect you so badly that I did things I should not have. And in doing so, I made you suffer. I made you cry. I made you the object of their affection. I would do anything for you, Mary. You must know that by now. I would cut down any and all that tried to harm you. And that scares you – as it should. I could easily become a monster. I could easily become Catherine (my, what a scary thought_ that _is). I could easily lose you in the process of trying to save you. And I cannot take that risk. I would gladly die a million times over if I just knew that you would be safe and happy. I would give you up to Francis, knowing that it made you happy._

_He can protect you in ways I cannot. He thinks of country first, yes. But his distance, his aloofness, will be a great asset to you. He will be able to make decisions not based on his heart, but on what is best for all. And especially you. He’ll make a great king one day. But he will never be nearly as good a King, as you are a Queen. You rule with dignity and poise. You love and trust your subjects, even your future ones, the French._

_I may never see you again, though I will think of you daily. I’m almost certain that Sterling would try to run away with me, as attached as he has become, but he will be tied up, near the sheep he so loves to torment, for you as a shoulder to cry on and to hear your secrets since I cannot. But know, I will always be with you. And if you are ever truly in need of me, that necklace is the key to where I am. I had it made for you, as a symbol of both my love, and your love for Scotland. Somewhere I once read that the thistle is the flower of Scotland, of its nobility, of its heart. Prickly when pushed the wrong way, but so beautiful it is worth the risk to pick. Do not take that invitation lightly. You are a Queen, I am a bastard. And I will do anything to keep you safe. Do not put yourself at risk to find me. Do not put your country at risk to find me. I will always be here for you but I know, and you know, it will never happen in the way we want._

_I love you, and always will._

_Sebastian, your Bash._

She hadn’t realized she had crumbled to the ground at some point during reading the letter. She hadn’t realized that she was sobbing so hard that she could barely breathe. All she knew was some guards had come in, gently picking her up and moving her to her own chambers. That had to have been what happened. There was no other way to explain how she ended up on a chair in her room. She cried long past the point where tears could flow, leaving her gasping with a growing headache from the dehydration. He was gone. And she didn’t know where. He was never coming back. Stupid men and their want to protect her. People had died protecting her. People would die protecting her. But none had captured her heart the way that Bash had. And he hadn’t even died – he had just left without a goodbye, only a note and a necklace.

Francis let her cry for two days and then demanded that she be at meals and other court functions so that she could move on. Though Mary knew that she never would. She began writing a thousand letters, knowing she could never send them. She never took the necklace off, sometimes hiding it in a dress, other times wearing it out in the open. She received questions about it from Catherine, her ladies and Francis, but she wouldn’t reveal who it was from. “It’s a token to remind me of my country, of the strength and beauty of the Scottish people.” She had repeated, over and over, never saying more even when probed.

It took her months to accept the fate that maybe Bash was right. Maybe she couldn’t be both Queen and Mary. Maybe Catherine was right – Queens could never be truly happy. Both thoughts made her shiver with dread for the life in front of it. And so, she moved on, hoping throwing herself into work would help. But still, the necklace and its riddle was on her mind. She puzzled over it at night when the insomnia prevented her from more than a few hours of sleep a night. She puzzled over it as Henry made plans for her and Francis’ wedding. The plans were slow, languorous as if there was never to be a need for a wedding – just an engagement. She would have mentioned it to Francis, but that was _before_. Now she saw no need to rush to the wedding. She would consent to it but only because she was supposed to. Only because the English forces were beginning to mass on the Scottish border. That was the only reason she could think of to be getting married to Francis. Olivia had broken her. But it was not just Olivia. It was comparatively how safe she felt with Bash versus with Francis.

She thought about the riddle as she walked along the lake, remembering all the hours they spent together talking. She had figured it out by the fourth month what he meant. She almost ran to him, to home, and a world so much hers. But she remembered his words that she couldn’t run away. She couldn’t leave without thinking of her country first. And so, she waited. She trusted in God and maybe even the pagan gods that if she was meant to leave France, turning her back on an alliance with a superpower, she would. Not a moment before. Timing, after all, was everything.

The moment came soon enough. Word reached the French court that Queen Mary of England, was ill and fading fast. Henry had been positively ecstatic about _that_ development. Almost in the same breath that he had announced the English Queen’s demise, he announced Francis’ and Mary’s wedding date. She had finally had a date. She thought it would have brought her so much more joy than it had. Of course, there were stipulations. One of them was that she go after England, staking her claim to the throne, uniting the entire island – England, Scotland, and Wales would be one, and with it all of England’s overseas holdings. This she did not want. Though Elizabeth was a Protestant, Mary felt no ill-will towards her cousin. She did not want the bloodshed it would cause her people. It was amazing how connected she felt to the Scottish when she herself had spent scare more than a few months there since she had turned six. But connected she did.

She had a day. She would have hoped for more time, in order to sneak away. But as she packed, she knew this was the right thing to do, the right time. More time would leave her with a calmness that could not be explained. It would have left her with a smile – something she had not a true one of in months. Of course, maybe some would just think that the Queen was happy to finally be getting married. Even if that was so far from the truth.

She didn’t pack much, though she knew the journey would be long, and hard. She also knew it would be become harder and harder to hide who she was if she wore the gowns she had grown accustomed to at the palace. She took some of her ladies’ gowns, leaving them each a letter explaining where she had gone and welcoming them back with her when they felt the time right. She considered cutting her hair, but she knew that short hair would make her stand out more than her long hair. She didn’t pack any makeup and instead packed the journal filled with letters to Bash. With the necklace hidden safely under her dress, a bag tied to her saddle and a letter left for King Henry (but not Francis), she left.

She had written that as Queen of her country, she had a right to revoke any engagement contract or contract with another nation that she saw fit to do so. There were matters of Scotland that needed tending to, and the assumption had always been that once married she would remain in France. She wrote that that arrangement did not suit her or her country. She wrote about how she really didn’t care about how he broke it to Francis. Or if he sent people after her, she would retaliate. She told the King of France to let her go… or else. Mary had smirked when she had written that sentence. Every stroke had been true.

She smiled as she realized how obvious the answer to the riddle had been as she rode away. _Tá mé i gcónaí anseo, I am always here_.

There was a thistle garden in Edinburgh – it was there, just outside the castle, not only as a symbol of the eternal Scottish monarchy, but as a source for all the capital’s thistle needs. She had told Bash of it once – how she missed the smell and the beautiful purple flowers. It was summer, the thistle would be in full bloom if she was able to get there in time.

And she did. She returned to Edinburgh, disposing her mother as regent and taking up her throne once more. The people celebrated and cheered as she spoke from the Castle. She was happy to be back in her home country once more, but she also missed him. She went to the gardens every day, walking and waiting, hoping to see him. It was another two months, just as the plants were beginning to die and snow could be seen brushing the old castle cliffs, before she saw him.

It was a cold day, where the traditional Scottish mist they liked to call cheery meery had set in, dampening everyone’s spirits as the cold sunk into their bones. It was a cold day but one where Mary had no royal obligations and so she spent it outside, on a bench she had made for her waiting days, and waited. She had nearly given up hope, just as the sun was beginning to sink, she saw him.

“Bash.” It wasn’t a question. It was a breathed affirmation.

“It took you long enough to realize what I meant.” He stopped, that same cheeky grin on his face. He didn’t walk any further towards her, merely opening his arms. Arms that securely fastened around her as she hugged him. She breathed in, realizing his scent had changed, as had his accent, but it was still the same Bash.

“You told me to not come lightly. To make the right decision, for me, for Scotland, for everyone.”

He smiled ruefully, resting a hand on her cheek. “And what, Mary, is your decision? Whose are you now?”

She smiled up at him. “I am nobody’s. Nobody can claim me because I am as wild, free, and dangerous as the Highlands my father loved. I am not Francis’, or France’s, or my mother’s, or your’s, or even Scotland’s.”

Bash’s hand dropped from her cheek and he looked downcast. As if what she was saying meant the end of everything. “So you are to remain unmarried?”

Mary laughed, causing Bash’s head to snap up in surprise. “Do not toy with me, Mary.”

“I do not. I am not a piece of property, Sebastian. I have my own mind, my own will and my own soul. I have been ruled by too many other people for too long. It is time I started being my own person – whomever that is. But,” her voice lowered and she took his hands in hers, “I would love it if you would stand beside me, as Prince, every day for the rest of our lives. I want to wake up to those eyes and have your heart guide me when mine is lost. I want _you_ , Bash.” She paused, looking at his shining eyes reflecting what she imagined her own were showing: pure happiness and love. “Bash, marry me.”

“No.” And for a moment, Mary’s heart fell. It was all over. “That’s not how it’s done. This is how it’s done.” He dropped down on one knee and with the biggest grin she had ever seen, he said, “Marry me, Mary Queen of Scots, and make me the luckiest bastard on earth.”

She didn’t even need to answer, their kisses were enough. Though, after a moment or two when they pulled apart, breathless, with foreheads resting on one another that he asked the dreaded question. “So what happens with France? With protecting Scotland?”

“We don’t need France. We just need England.”

“I wouldn’t think you would want to go to war, Mary.”

“Oh, I don’t.”

“Then…” Bash looked confused. “How?”

“We make a deal with Princess Elizabeth and Queen Mary.”

“I’m sorry, I’m… I’m not following you.”

“I don’t want England. I want you.”

“But Scotland’s been England’s…”

“Will you hush and let me finish. I don’t want England. I want you. I want Scotland to be safe. I want the Catholics in my country to be safe, just as I imagine Elizabeth wants the Protestants safe. She once, when we were younger and more foolish, mentioned that she would never marry. Her father’s mistakes on that account made her realize that much. If she does not marry and dies childless, the crown passes to me. I think our biggest obstacles are not each other, or even who rules whom, but whose religion. The reform movements are gaining strength, and even though I am a devout Catholic, I cannot let my people die because of their faith.” She paused, not to think, but to breathe. She had figured this all out on the long trip back to Scotland. She had a plan.

“We meet with Elizabeth, after Queen Mary has died. We talk of how we can make this work. How to unite the island without bloodshed. She may be more agreeable to it than we think. After all, the Spanish have threatened a few things if she does not marry one of their princes.” She looked to Bash, wondering what he was thinking.

“If you have England…”

“I don’t need France.”

“Well, there is the small matter of me being a bastard…”

“To the King of France. But,” she pulled a small letter from her dress, handing it to him, “to me, and to Scotland, you are the Duke of Hamilton.”

Bash’s eyebrows went up. “A duke? How am I a duke? Did you kill off the previous title holder?”

Mary chuckled. “No such luck. His children died before he did – he died a few months ago. My mother wanted to appoint a successor but I told her to wait. Hamilton is the oldest of the dukedoms in Scotland, and, coincidentally, the highest ranked. With a title, you are now able to marry me, Duke Bash.”

“Please, don’t call me that.”

“How does husband sound?” A smirk playing at her lips.

“It sounds perfect. But I have to ask you, Mary, are you sure?”

“As sure as I will ever be. You have protected me from so much and you love me so deeply. I love you and I wouldn’t have anyone else by my side, helping me rule.”

“Then when do we get married?”

“Officially? Or,” a blush rose to her cheeks, “unofficially?”

“Officially. I want to do this properly.”

“Well King Henry wanted me to get married in a day. But I say in a week. We will announce you at court, give everyone a little time to adjust, and then have the grand wedding my mother, not I, always dreamed of.”

Bash kissed her again, picking her up and spinning her through the air. “You are going to be my wife!”

* * *

 

One week later, in her favorite (but new) blue gown with the white flowered overlay that reminded her of his eyes, she entered Holyrood’s grand hall to marry him. The coronation would follow their honeymoon – when Bash would become Sebastian, Prince Consort, though he was allowed to keep his Dukedom. In the meantime, Mary would have to educate him about Scottish history (he needed to know much more than the flower), the way the Scottish court worked, and how to perform his duties when she was indisposed. Not to mention, she needed to teach him Gaelic.

“I, Mary Eilidh Stuart…”

“I, Sebastian…”

As they broke apart to a clapping, smiling crowd, Bash leaned in to whisper in her ear, “There will be no sleep tonight, wife.”

It took her a few hours to get back to him with all the well-wishers surrounding the Queen, separating her from her Duke, but when she did, for a dance, she whispered in his ear, “I didn’t plan on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, Mary’s middle name is a Gaelic name pronounced “Eh-LEE” which means “light.” Second off, hope you all enjoyed. First Reign fic, hope I did the Mash/Mabastian fan base happy. I had the best time writing this. It was so, so much fun. I plan to slowly turn this into a full-length fic by fleshing it out with backstory and elaborate on some moments (like the months Mary waited before returning to Scotland) but they will be in the same one-shot format. ~ Ann


	2. In Which Mary's Grandmamma is Wise

            “Bash,”

            “Yes, Your Grace?”

            “Mary, please.” She grew so tired of having to repeat her name to everyone. She was a Queen, yes, but she did not feel one, nor did she like the formality, the distance, it put between her and her friends. “Would you care to accompany me on a ride?”

            Bash looked up at the sky which looked as if any minute it would threaten to rain down buckets. Then he looked down at her. “Are you not worried for the weather?”

            Mary smiled, though the smile did not reach her eyes. “I am Scottish, Bash. I do not fear rain or cold.”

            Bash clapped his hands, “Well then, a ride we shall have.” They set off for the stables, waiting for the servants to bring their horses around. They didn’t speak until they were well outside the Castle walls, neither wanting to break the comfortable silence they found themselves in.

            “Now, Mary, what’s wrong?”

            “Why does something have to be wrong? Why can’t we just have a pleasant ride?” Her tone was biting, sharper than she meant it to be.

            “Shall we start about how angry you were that I asked what’s wrong? Or that it looks like it’s threatening to pour and you’re in one of your nicest gowns, yet you decided you wanted a ride with me?”

            She sighed, tired. The weight of the French court had been a lot for her. It had taxed her in ways she didn’t know were possible. She had lived with the daily threat of being killed by the English before, but by the French – that was new. It was definitely not a something new she appreciated. But in the few months she had been there, she had managed to survive (obviously), but also find a part of her she hadn’t known existed before: her scheming part.

            Of course, very little of her scheming went as planned. And it certainly failed with regularity with regards to Bash. Somehow he knew how to foil her plans. He always had. It should have annoyed her more than it did – probably because he could talk her out of things that weren’t good for her or for Scotland. He thought of her first – not something new to Mary, but something unfamiliar enough for those who had not sworn some sort of oath to protect her.

            “Did you know your grandmother?”

            Bash almost pulled his horse to a stop, surprised. By now a light mist had begun to fall, obscuring their path in a grey swirling mass. “My grandmother?”

            “Yes, your grandmother.”

            “I know my mother’s mother. She’s still alive and living in Provence, actually. My father’s mother had been dead by the time I had memory. Why do you ask?”

            “I received word that my mother’s mother, Antoinette de Bourbon, has taken ill. They don’t know if she’ll survive.”

            “I’ve heard of that name before – did she visit you when you were here when we were children?” Seeing Mary’s nod he continued, “If she is anything like she was then, I have no doubt that she will pull through.” Bash said with a smile. He stopped his horse, and dismounted, easily catching the slack reins of Mary’s own horse. “Come, she seemed to love the mud as you do.”

            The mist had turned into a rain, though from what Mary could see, the worst of it was yet to come. “She was always telling me that I didn’t have to be a lady. I was a Queen at six days old, she reminded me. I didn’t act Queen-like then, and so she reminded me that I needed to be myself more than anything. She said if that meant running around in the mud, then so be it. Scotland was wild and free, she said. Although she visited so infrequently that I always wondered how she knew that. She said I needed to be that wild and free for the crown would kill that soon enough.”

            Bash extended an arm to her with his usual cheeky grin. “Come, let’s be wild and free. Let’s play in the mud. And then we can solve this problem.”

            “Bash, I’m being serious.”

            “And you don’t think I am?” He put a hand to his heart, throwing his head back. “You wound me, Mary, Queen of Scots.”

            “My grandmother – the only relative I have that has truly let me be just Mary and not Mary, Queen of Scotland – is dying. And you want to play in the mud?” The last word spat like it was poison.

            Bash nodded. “Your grandmother wanted you to be the embodiment of your nation without _being_ your country. If she is to die, and there is nothing we can do, would you, standing here, right now, have fulfilled her wishes for you?”

            Mary’s eyes widened, the reality sinking in. “No. But…”

            “But nothing. We are going to play in the rain and the mud and then we’re going to sit and come up with a solution to get you to your grandmother or her here. I recommend the second one because then once she’s well, she can annoy the life out of Catherine!” Bash smirked.

            Mary still hesitated. Her mind was not evenly split, nor was it screaming for one or the other. But she knew that if she took off her shoes and stockings, something would change. She couldn’t put her finger on it. And maybe that is why she couldn’t fathom being a child again. It was not only childish, but it was reckless and what if she and Bash fell? Someone would say something and… a little voice in her head nudged her, saying “So what?” And so she took off her shoes and threw her stockings away, not really caring where they went. She ignored Bash’s grin as she took out the pins in her hair, tucking them into a saddlebag.

            And she took Bash’s hand and together they _flew_ down the hill, feeling the squish of the wet earth beneath their feet, the wind at their cheeks and the feeling of freedom. As they reached the bottom of the hill, Mary slowed, letting her feet sink into the deeper mud, not caring that her dress was now six inches deep in mud. This felt _good._

            She heard laughter beside her and saw Bash, red-faced and heaving with laughter. It was then she realized what would change if she went into the mud. She had chosen herself – a decision not for Scotland, not for France, not for her mother or her alliances – and now that she had, the feeling was so magnificent that she had no intention of ignoring that desire for that long again.

            “You’ve decided something, Mary.” Not a question – a statement. Bash knew her far too well.

            “My grandmother was right. I may be the Queen of Scotland, but I am first and foremost a person. And while I can’t make every decision for my benefit, I can’t ignore the little moments when I get that choice. What I want to wear, what I want to eat…”

            “When you want to run in the rain and the mud.”

            “Exactly.” They had ended their run by the edge of a lake, some logs waiting to be sat upon. But Mary had no desire to sit on a log. Instead, she sat right down in the mud.

            “That might not come out,” Bash stood over her, an eyebrow raised.

            “Then good. I actually hate this dress but Aylee keeps insisting that it makes me look older.”

            “Why would you need to look older?”

            “People forget the Queen is 16 until they have to do business with her. My mother knew that image was everything which is why she always wanted me to look older.”

            Bash sat down next to her. “She isn’t here.”

            “No, she isn’t. But she manages to exert considerable influence nonetheless,” Mary said with a huff, fists curling into the mud.

            “So your grandmother, where does she live?”

            “Joinville, in a beautiful Chateau, I’m told.”

            “Joinville? That’s only a four day ride from the Castle.”

            “Exactly,” Mary said with a groan. “So it is much too far for me to travel away from the Castle and if she is on her deathbed, then she wouldn’t make a four day journey.”

            “What can I do?”

            Mary knew exactly what she wanted – she wanted to be with her grandmother. But knowing that option was not feasible, she had a second idea. But it really was not a good idea – just one that had come as she looked out over the lake. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the idea. “No, I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do.”

            “I can go.”

            “I couldn’t ask that of you. And what, pray, would you be able to do once you were there?”

            “I am at your service. As for what I can do, I’m told that a friendly face is sometimes all it takes to get well.”

            Mary snorted, “And you think she likes you?”

            “Well, she certainly liked me better than Francis…” Bash began.

            “If we go back to the Castle and I write a letter, how fast can you be there? Will it take you four days?”

            “If I’m allowed the fastest horse we have, I can make it in two.”

            “You have it.”

            “Then let’s get you back to the castle and get that letter.” He stood up, offering her a hand.

            “Bash,” Mary said quietly. “Thank you. She is the only family member I trust.”

            “I hope, for both of your sake’s, that she lives then.”

* * *

 

            Bash returned a week later. “She’s alive.” He said quietly to her, pulling her away from the eavesdropping ears of court. “She asked me to give you this and know that as soon as she is well, which I predict to be soon based on her stubbornness alone, she will travel here to visit you.”

            “Thank you, Bash.” She said, giving him a short hug, aware of the audience that may be there at any moment. “Thank you so much.”

            “Anything for my Queen. Even if your grandmother, or Toni as I was instructed to call her, has quiet the sharp tongue.”

            “Did your own get sharpened?”

            “Oh, yes.” Bash blushed. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

            “What did she say?”

            “That I cannot say,” he held a finger to his lips. “I am sworn to secrecy.”

            “Bash!”

            “No, my Grace. I will not share everything with you.” There was an implied _just as you don’t share everything with me_ but she ignored it.

            “Will the letter illuminate anything?”

            “I don’t know. You’ll have to read it.” Bash said with a smirk, turning to leave.

            _My Dearest Mary,_

_I like this one you have sent in your place. He has a mind of his own and though he has trouble keeping up with my wit, he does much much better than most. He reminded me that I had met him before – was he the one you played with when you were children and Francis had ignored you as he so often did? He has certainly grown up. And is so handsome! Don’t blush my darling granddaughter. I’m sure you have noticed it as well._

_I am about to give you advice and a truth that you might not be ready for. But I feel the need to tell you regardless. Keep this letter hidden – you don’t want someone to find what I am about to say. That man loves you. He loves you and would do anything for you. You had to realize that when he agreed to ride his hardest (the poor horse!) to come and see to your sick grandmother. You had to, Mary. You are far from stupid._

_He did not speak much of Francis, although he did mention that you seemed to be angry at him. He was rather tight-lipped about your relationship so I must weasel that out of you when I arrive shortly. But my advice is to think of your heart. There will be countless decisions you have to live with because it was best for Scotland. Don’t let your heart be one of those decisions._

_You are always welcome at my Chateau and I hope to see you soon._

_All my love,_

_Grandmamma_

            Mary laughed. She had an inkling of what her grandmother had told Bash and she imagined it had something to do with marriage. If only that was a possibility for her to marry for love and not alliance. That was not to say that she loved Bash, no, she was pretty sure she couldn’t love him. But she wanted, someday in the future, be it with Francis or someone else, that it was not just a necessary marriage, but one of love. She knew that if she loved her husband, they would rule Scotland with strength and love – something benefitting the great nation she ruled over.

            If only she was allowed to be herself.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t think about where this fits in with the main story – it doesn’t reference anything in particular from the original story. Instead, it’s a piece I thought of in honor of my Nana who I lost two years ago. Mary’s grandmother actually did live a long, healthy life and was Mary’s closest advice when she lived in France. Hope you all enjoy!


	3. In Which Mary Learns to Pick a Lock

Angry, she stomped out of the castle and straight into Bash. “Woah, there, Mary.”

            She looked up at the older boy, frowning. He had been gone from the castle lately and so she hadn’t expected him to be there. And right now he was impeding her stomping path away from Francis. “Move.”

            The fourteen year old raised an eyebrow at the six year old Queen of Scotland. “Excuse me?”

            “You heard me. Move.”

            Bash stepped aside, indicating the path was now clear with his arm. “What did he do?”

            “Who?”

            “Francis. He is the only possible person to make you this angry that is currently at the castle.”

            Mary huffed, walking quickly away from Bash to the lake (even then it had been their spot), plopping herself unceremoniously on a log. She knew he would follow her – that was without question. So when she heard the footsteps stop, his warmth almost tangible as she realized just how cold she was. She had left the castle without any warm outer garments and it was not yet spring. He must have realized this as his cape soon went over her shoulders and he sat next to her.

            “Tell me about it.”

            “He said I was being stupid. And he locked the door to his room so I can’t get in and won’t answer when I call.”

            Bash nodded. “What did he do?” He treated her not like the eight year old she was, but like she was so much older than she was. It made her aspire to be as articulate and grown-up as she could be.

            “He was playing with a sword…a real sword. And he cut himself – badly.” She closed her eyes, the image of Francis’ blood-stained shirt at the front of her mind. “I told him he shouldn’t toy with something that could easily kill him.”

            “A wise thought, your Grace.”

            “Mary.” She corrected automatically.

            “Mary.”

            “That was three days ago, Bash! Why won’t he talk to me?”

            Bash chuckled. “I imagine he hurt his pride, hurting himself in front of you. I know he’s been practicing swordplay so hard lately in the hopes of impressing you. At least, that was his goal before I left.”

            “His pride? He could have killed himself!”

            “We do not all think with our head, Mary.” Bash gently reminded. When she looked up at him, he was smirking and his eyes were glinting, showing his mischievous side.

            “What?”

            “You want to get Francis to talk to you?”

            “Yes!”

            “And you say he won’t open the door for you?”

            “Yes!” Mary said exasperated.

            “Then you open the door.”

            “Bash,” Mary groaned, “I told you. It’s locked.”

            “Then maybe you should unlock it. Surprise him, demand that he talk to you and don’t let him leave until he does.”

            “How am I supposed to unlock a door I don’t have a key for?” She was getting frustrated and was ready to hit Bash for being so elusive. She nearly did when his hands went to her hair and pulled out two pins. How he knew where it locate the pins – and to do so easily was a mystery to Mary. But in many, many ways, Bash would always remain a mystery to her.

            “With this.” He held up the pin.

            “I don’t know how.”

            “Of course you don’t. Which is why I’m going to teach you.”

            He had piqued her interest and he could tell. Chuckling, he explained to her how she was going to learn how to pick a lock. He warned her it would take a couple of days to master, but after that, Francis could never hide behind a locked door again if she didn’t want him to.

            It was a responsibility and freedom all at the same time. Mary wondered if this was what being a grown-up felt like all the time – a great responsibility to do the right thing with one’s freedom. If it was, she thought that she would make a horrible Queen – she would want to choose freedom all the more often than she would responsibility. It seemed like the adults in her life were much too sour, too sad all the time. Maybe it was because they didn’t choose freedom enough. Maybe, Mary thought horrified, they didn’t have a choice.

            “Mary, you’re a thousand miles away right now. Come back down.” Mary then remembered Bash was sitting next to her, waiting to teach her a lesson. She refocused and nodded, an indication she was back. “Where did you go?”

            “The same place I always go,” Mary said with a sigh. “The place where I realize I won’t have nearly as much fun as I am having right now, with you.”

            Bash reached an arm around her, pulling her close. “My little Mary, you’re much too young to be talking like that. You are, after all, only eight.”

            “I’m almost nine.” She said with an air of importance, snuggling into Bash.

            “Well, then, that makes all the difference,” he teased. “Now, you remember how I said that my door was always open for you when you came here two years ago?”

            Mary could barely believe that it had been two years since she had moved to the Castle in France, but yes, it had been. And soon she would be gone. She knew that after her ninth birthday she would return to Scotland for a time, before moving to a convent for the rest of her education. It was a horrible way to live, bouncing around from place to place, never really knowing if she was going to be safe – but it was all she knew. “Yes,” Mary said, responding to Bash’s question.

            He had promised her that very first night she had come to France, terrified. Francis wanted nothing to do with her and she was in a scary castle without anyone she knew since her grandmother had been delayed in greeting her. The food was different – nothing like her usual Scottish fare. And they didn’t like milk. Bash had bumped into her when she was running away, crying, from a dinner. After that, they were friends when she needed him to be, but mostly he was in the shadows, as his place as the King’s bastard demanded.

            “For the next couple of days I’m going to lock it. I want you to practice and try to break into my room. While Catherine is gone, and her guards elsewhere, I want you to try her room too.”

            “But she’s the Queen of France!”

            “Yes, and a lock-picking skill is no good if you can’t do it under pressure.” Bash pointed out. He did have a point.

            “But you’re going to teach me first, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “Can we start now?”

            “There’s my girl!” He hopped up, causing Mary to nearly fall off the log. She had been wrapped up in his cape, arms tucked close to his side, head resting on chest (he was just a bit too tall for her to rest it on his shoulder). But just as she felt herself ready to hit the ground, he had lifted her up, spinning her placing her back on the ground. “Can’t have you bumping your royal head, now can we?”

            Mary scoffed. “I am no china doll.”

            Bash threw his head back, laughing. “Of all the things in the world that you are, Mary, Queen of Scots, a china doll is not one of them.”

            They walked back to the Castle, up many flights of stairs and down many corridors until they reached a part of the Castle Mary had not seen before – and that was saying something. “Where are we?”

            “It used to be a servant’s corridor but they don’t use it anymore. They say they’ve lose the key.” His eyes glinted in the dim light of the hallway.

            “Did you steal it?” Mary asked, hands on hips, accusing.

            “Now I can’t go revealing all my secrets.” He handed her the pins. “Watch, and then you try.”

            Mary was not a natural at lock-picking, something she discovered quickly as she tried to navigate the pins. Finally, Bash, seeing her frustration, took her hands in his, guiding them to twist the pin in just the right way to get the door open. It popped open without much effort. “Try again.”

            He was patient with her, even when she wasn’t with herself. After her fifth round of trying, she was red-faced and close to tears as she kicked the door in frustration.

            “Mary?”

            “No. I have to get this.”

            Bash put his hands on her shoulders – something she was instantly aware of as she began to calm down. “We can come back to this.” He dropped his hands and Mary found herself missing the touch. She had always been a touch-person, craving the intimacy that she was never able to have as a child Queen in Scotland. Her mother, aloof from the death of her father, and everyone else too afraid of doing something that could be perceived as wrong.

            She turned, eyes threatening to spill over as she looked up at him. “Tonight?”

            “Not tonight. Tomorrow morning, first thing.” He said with a gentle smile. “You’ll get this – I promise.”

            It took her a week (a week in which Francis still was avoiding her, though he had started taking dinners with the rest of the family), but she had gotten to the point where she could easily unlock Bash’s door, or really any door in the castle without much time or effort. Of course, she was nervous when she went to see Francis so it took a little more time, but she managed it.

            “Mary, what are you doing here?”

            “Since you won’t come to me, I thought I’d come to you.”

            “But I locked my door.”

            “So I noticed.” Mary made like she was adjusting her hair when she was really slipping the pins back in.

            “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.”

            It was then that Mary, a year older and at least a foot taller, showed her true strength. “Tough. You’re going to sit then and you’re going to listen.”

            He did. And for the first time in Mary’s life, she felt the power in knowing she commanded someone. It was a scary feeling – like a river rushing through her all at once, pouring fire into her veins and burning her from the inside out with a passion that made her want to yell and scream but in a voice so deadly that none would question her. It was the first time Mary had felt like a Queen. She liked it. She liked it a little too much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This one is a short piece, sorry! I wanted to get you all another piece as quickly as possible and have it have some substance more than the “let us delve into inner workings of the mind” that I so much like to write. (That, and writing an eight year old is harder than I imagined.) We’re getting into the tail end of my semester so I’ll have less time to write as final papers/projects/life begins to crop up, but I hope to have another scene up for you by the beginning of next week.
> 
> Also… I would very much appreciate if anyone had suggestions, such as a “Scenes We’d Like to See” thing. Pop me a message or in a review.
> 
> As always, thanks for the reviews and the reads!


	4. In Which They Decide Who They Are

It was a quiet but beautiful early morning at Holyrood. Soon all of Edinburgh would be out and about in the town as it would become packed with peasants bartering, children playing, and old men conversing outside the pubs. It was the day of Bash’s nobility ceremony which Mary had decided to hold (much to her guards chagrin) at the gates of her childhood home, the Castle. But at the moment, the streets were quiet save for a few market stalls that were just beginning to open. The sun was creeping up and soon the Castle would be bathed in its warmth.

            Mary knew everything had changed – everything _would_ change – now that she had abandoned France and decided to marry Bash. There was no turning back. And while she had no regrets (and honestly felt that she would have very little in the future in regards to those two decisions), there was still a part of her that wondered, what could have happened differently if only…

            That was the reason she woke Bash up at a very early hour, dragging him out into the town. He looked positively sinful with his hair sticking up in all places, night shift open, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. If she hadn’t been so flustered at deciding to wake him up to walk and talk, and in so much need of that conversation, she would have let him sleep.

It was a nice walk uphill from Holyrood to the Castle and she thought it would be a good opportunity to talk to Bash, alone, before the craziness of the day’s ceremony began. They would later ride by carriage from Holyrood so Mary knew they might be in for a long walk – but she didn’t mind.

            “How long have you lived at the Palace?” Bash asked, trying (and failing) to stifle a yawn.

            “Just since I returned. I grew up in the Castle – a drafty miserable old place with so much history it is quite scary at times. Well, I should say that I grew up in France, but… I crowned at six days at a different castle – Stirling Castle – my mother barely recovered from birth and we had to go to Stirling for the christening and coronation. They were building Holyrood then, I’m told.”

            “Do you like it?”

            “It is very much my mother’s Palace. But that will change soon enough. I’ve plans to hire some of the best of Scotland to help me decorate it.”

            “No initials in the tiles, please,” Bash teased.

            “No, no initials in the tiles.” Mary said with a shake of her head. As they walked, she pointed out little shops where she had played with the children of the town (“I was always running away from the Castle and my lessons,” she had told Bash.), the flower shop that supplied the Castle, the baker that made the best bread you would ever taste, and the significance of the distance between Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace.

            Bash took her hand in his, pulling her close to him as they walked. “Why did you wake me up at this god awful hour? I am guessing it was not because you wanted to see my devilish bedhead.”

            Mary sighed. “No, I wanted to show you Edinburgh as I remembered it – this sleepy little town that was so quiet in the early mornings.”

            They both remembered many a time when they had snuck out of the castle, either very late or very early to see the sky before it lightened. There was something so serene about a world before it woke – before it had cares and troubles weighing down upon it. In those moments, Mary had felt like she could have been anyone. That she was free, that they were free, that the world was free. It was a wonderful feeling, lying out on the grass, watching the stars appear or disappear, knowing in that moment everything was okay and they didn’t have to think beyond that exact second of their existence. “Snuck out a lot when you were five?” Bash raised an eyebrow.

            “No!” She smacked him gently on the arm, a small smile creeping on her face.

            “You may have wanted to show me your Edinburgh, but that’s not why you dragged me out here.”

            “Why do you always seem to know my ulterior motives?”

            “Because, I learned your horrible bluffing face a long time ago. Though, you have gotten better at it.” Bash paused, “You know you’ve never been able to hide your thoughts from me.”

            “This is true.” Mary looked up at the Castle, looming in front of them as they walked down the main street. “Bash, when did you know who you were?”

            “You mean, when did I know I was a bastard?”

            Mary hated the word, and really preferred that he not use it, but she nodded regardless.

            “I was eight.”

            “How did you find out?”

            “Oh, I’m sure I knew much before then – people were always whispering. And I did wonder why my mother seemed to always be at court, despite her relatively low standing. But I was standing in the hallway, looking for Francis so that we could play when I overheard an argument between my mother and Catherine. That’s when I knew.”

            “When did you know who you were, though?” Mary pressed.

            Bash pursed his lips, titling his head towards her. “What do you mean?”

            “When did you know who you were – who you were meant to be?”

            Bash laughed, throwing his head back with pure joy. “Oh, Mary…”

            “It’s not funny.”

            “No, I suppose for you, it isn’t.”

            “You’re going to be Prince Regent, Bash. It shouldn’t be funny for you either.”

            “Mary, we never really know who we are. My aunt said we would spend all of our lives trying to figure that out.”

            “But… you seem to know.”

            “I know I am a bastard, the illegitimate child of two people who loved each other very much but couldn’t be together. I know that I have three half-brothers and two half-sisters. I know that I’m going to marry you. And that I love you.” He kissed her cheek as they continued to walk. “Does that explain it?”

            “No.” Mary said dejectedly. “That’s not what I mean.”

            “I know. But Mary, I can’t offer you answers that are lies. I have been told who I am for as long as I can remember, each time adding in a few more colorful adjectives. I believe most of it, and the parts I don’t believe, I don’t let bother me.” They had reached the Castle gates, the guards letting them through.

            “I have been Queen since I was six days old, did you know that?”

            “You’ve mentioned it a few times when you have been upset.”

            “So since before I was aware of who I was, I was defined. But I still feel like I don’t know who I am. Bash, how can I rule a country if I don’t know who I am? How can I rule a country I don’t know?”

            “Let’s start with the fact you are wrong – you are not defined. You are so much more than the Queen of the Scots. You are more than a Queen. You are a human being, a lady, a fireball, and so many other things.” He said this with awe in his eyes. “You are a misfit, in the best sense of the word. You don’t stand for the status quo if it’s going to hurt those you love. And you _love_ Scotland. They may not know you, but they will. It’ll come, in time. In the meantime, you’ll figure out who you are and what kind of ruler you want to be. Though, and I say this with all the love I have for you, I think you already know.”

            “It’s scary.” Mary finally admitted, looking over the Castle wall to the sea lurking on the edge of the horizon.

            “Life always is. But we’ll do it together.” Bash stood behind her, arms wrapped around her, letting his head rest on her shoulder. They stood there for a while, just enjoying watching the sun lazily rise in the sky.

            “We should get back.”

            “I have a suggestion, first.”

            “Oh?” Mary asked, turning into him, looking up at Bash.

            “Yes. You know how we are supposed to have a wedding tour – go around for two months, have ridiculous amounts of sex and ‘see’ the countryside?”

            “Bash!” Mary giggled.

            “Let’s use it as a diplomacy campaign. Let’s show everyone, from Durness to Gretna, know what you look like and what you stand for.”

            “I’m impressed you know more of your Scottish geography.”

            “What do you say?”

            “Can we still have lots of sex?” Mary asked, wrapping her arms around him.

           

* * *

 

            It was a few hours later and there was no mistaking the buzz of excitement surrounding the nobility ceremony. Bash was not the only person receiving nobility – there were a few men receiving knighthood, and she was to appoint the new ambassador to the Vatican – but he was the one they had all come to see.

            “You look truly ridiculous,” Bash commented, seeing her in the Crown of Scotland. “Beautiful, but ridiculous.”

            “Just be thankful you will never have to wear it. It’s damn heavy,” Mary grumbled.

            “How often do you have to wear it?”

            “Official state functions – the first meetings with Kings and Queens of other nations, nobility ceremonies and coronations.”

            “And other times?”

            “I have several tiaras of my choosing. Apparently, I have a Welsh diamond tiara waiting, specifically for my wedding.”

            “What do I have to wear?”

            “For now? You’ll get a special ceremonial sword and papers proving your worth as a Duke. Once we’re married and the coronation for you happens, there’s a simple crown for you.” Mary shrugged. “Now, can we please get going so I can get this thing off of my head?”

            “As you wish.”

* * *

 

            It truly was a sight to behold. Standing at the top of the hill, the Castle rising up behind her, Mary sat. Although her head ached with the pressure and weight of the crown, she sat up straight, regal, the scepter in one hand, the other resting comfortably on the throne. An attendant held the Sword of State to complete the Honours. The sword was heavy too, though Mary had been expecting that part of her duty.

            “Sebastian de Poitiers, step forward.”

            Bash did as he was told, his eyes never leaving hers as she stood, the slightest of trembles visible in her stance.

            “By the powers vested in me by my forbearers, the Kings of Scotland, and the people of Scotland, I grant you the title of Duke of Hamilton. Kneel.”

            Even with his head bowed, Mary could feel the wave after wave of love crashing over her as she tapped each shoulder with the sword. “Rise, Duke Sebastian Hamilton.”

            He did and the emotion in his eyes was almost enough to make Mary want to drop the Honours and jump into his arms and a hug and kiss. But that was not now. No, she had to be Queen first.

            “People of Scotland, I give you the new Duke of Hamilton.” Mary called out, her voice clear in the silent crowd. She nodded to Bash who turned to face the crowd. The moment he did, they erupted in cheers. It seemed Bash had already won the hearts of the Scots, just like he had done with Mary – with a smile, charm and a head on his shoulders.

* * *

 

_Author’s Note: Here’s another chapter!  I am going to hold off the wedding chapter, as well as the honeymoon chapter, for at least a little while longer. Those require more research – all the gowns! All the jewels! All the marriage vows! But, in light of how much fun I had describing Sleepy-Bash, I imagine the next chapter will involve Mary interrupting his sleep once more._

_The song that inspired this chapter was Bastille’s_ Durban Skies _. Until next chapter, Ann_


	5. In Which He's Her Escape

_Author’s Note: Song for the chapter is Relient K’s_ Be My Escape

The sun had set on another day at the Castle, marking one week since Mary had returned to the French Court. She had had her ladies help her into a more modest gown which she could get out of and into her nightgown easy enough. She had said she wanted to stay up and read for a bit – something only half true. What she wanted had nothing to do with books and everything to do with one person whose room was across the Castle from her’s. What she wanted also involved the outdoors. And though it was still relatively warm outside, Mary knew once the moon hit its peak in the sky the wind would pick up and she would be cold if she did not bring a coat of some sort.

      At first, she had tried to sleep. But she tossed and turned and stared at the canopy of her bed for much too long. So, when she was sure the Castle was quiet and nobody without discretion would be awake, she snuck out of her room, following the route almost by heart now. She had gone there so many times in her childhood that by now it was muscle memory the way to his room.

      Bash had no guards outside his room – after all, he was just the King’s bastard. That made it easy to try his door (which was unlocked, of course), and slip inside. He was asleep, face down in the pillows, one arm tucked underneath the pillow, another wrapped around his head. His blankets were kicked off, twisted around his feet and his shirt was raised up, baring his lower back.

      Mary backed into the shut door, suddenly very aware of where she was, what time it was, and who they were. She was the Queen of Scotland and she was engaged to Bash’s half-brother, not Bash. Even if she had snuck into Francis’ room, people would talk. There were many times when she was just a girl. This was not one of those times.

      And yet, she was also not going to just leave. She was already here – she might as well. Stepping closer, her voice barely above a strangled whisper, she called out to him. “Bash!”

      “Go away, Francis. I just want to sleep.” Bash groaned into his pillow. Mary got the idea that he hadn’t been that far into sleep – he was usually the most impossible person to wake up. In the past, Mary had taken to dumping buckets of water on his head to get him to wake up and go for a walk or a ride with her.

      Mary stepped forward again, and again, taking herself to the edge of the bed. “Oh, has Francis grown breasts now? We used to tease his pudginess as a child when he couldn’t catch us in the trees – but this, this is a new development,” Mary teased.

      Bash turned his head to her voice, and as he realized who it was, he shot up in the air, eyes wide. “Mary!”

      “Good to see we know who I am now.” She titled her head to look at him, watching as his breathing slowly returned to normal, though his eyes did stay wide.

      “What are you doing here?” He nearly hissed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

      “You always told me as a child that your door was always open. No matter what happened between us, between Francis and I, between Scotland and France, you said your door was always open. Has that changed?”

      “Mary….” Bash sighed, running a hand over his face. “You know I don’t do well in arguments after I’ve been woken up.”

      Mary raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms across her chest. “That’s why I came. Come. Let’s take the passageways to the stables and go for a ride.”

      “And how, pray, do you seem to know all about the passageways?”

      “The same way you know how to get into the wine cellars without anyone noticing – curiosity and need.”

      “And why do you require my services at this hour?”

      Mary nearly stomped her foot in agitation. “Does it matter? You swore you would always be there if I needed you. You said, just the night I returned, that I was not alone.”

      “Mary, you were nine when you left France. It has been seven years and you are no girl.”

      “No, I’m the Queen of Scotland, same as when I left.” Mary did not know what was so hard for him to grasp that she wanted to get away from the Castle and she wanted to do it with him.

      Bash seemed to have realized he was going to lose this argument. He swung his legs over the side of the bed with a sigh and looked up at her. “Tonight, yes. But only tonight. After tonight, we find a different routine in the daylight. You cannot be up all hours of the night and we cannot be alone together after dark.”

      “Good. Now put on a cloak and let’s go.”

      ---

      They didn’t have much trouble sneaking past the guards – half were drunk, the other half asleep. _Some good they do protecting the King and Dauphin of France!_ Bash thought with a chuckle. Once safely outside the gates, they mounted their horses and before Bash could say a word, Mary was off, her horse at a full-out gallop. It was almost as if she wanted him wide awake, combining two of his favorite things – going fast and her. Well, if it was a race she wanted…

      They flew down the road, the only sound the horses’ hooves in the night. Bash noticed that soon after they had sprinted off, she had let her reins go slack, letting the horse guide her. That was a dangerous idea, Bash knew. If the horse hit something, spooked or even got too close to the trees, Mary would either be thrown or injured – a risk he could not take.

If she was injured at night, out riding with him, the consequences would be disastrous for him and potentially life-threatening to Scotland. Bash was always thinking two steps ahead of her since she had returned to France, changed. She had always been willful, stubborn and so headstrong but this was something different. She was reckless now, almost spiteful. He couldn’t imagine how she had changed so quickly, but then again, time had a way of changing things.

They had entered a wooded part of the countryside (though not the Blood Wood, thankfully), and Mary looked back at him with a grin. “Come on, Bash!”

That’s when he saw it, a second before it was too late. “Mary, duck!” He screamed, slowing his horse down and jumping off onto the soft earth. She had whipped her head around to see what she was to be ducking, and ran her head straight into the edge of a branch. She fell backward, quite ungracefully, off the horse that had continued galloping through the forest.

“Mary!”

The sound he received was only laughter. Bash knelt on the ground, gently pulling her up to a sitting position, and again, she continued to laugh. When Bash met her eyes, tears were streaming down her face as she laughed, her breaths coming in gasps as the laughter consumed her. There was a cut on her forehead that was bleeding, but other than that and the _laughter_ she seemed fine.

“Are you okay?” He asked, carefully. He knew the answer to that. No, she wasn’t. She couldn’t possibly be. She was in a castle she was supposed to know well, but was surrounded by outsiders and people she didn’t know, or didn’t know anymore. She was constantly threatened by those who wanted her crown, and the man she was supposed to marry and love forever wasn’t even close to returning the feelings.

“Fine. Just fine.”

“Mary, you don’t have to lie to me.”

Her laughter stopped and she looked up at him, cradled in his arms, wincing as one hand went to her cut forehead. “And what makes you think I’m lying?”

“Because you’re being reckless. And the laughter?”

“Bash,” his name came out as a sigh. “Just tonight, I am no Queen and you are not you. We are two friends who decided for a midnight ride to see the stars and one got a little careless in directing her horse.”

He was more than willing to accept the suggestion. For tonight, they could be infinite – they could be everyone and no one all at the same time. But concern for her head and any other part of her body that might be injured, took precedent. “Can you stand?”

“Can I? I don’t know.” She shifted her weight away from him, testing her balance. Bash stood slowly with her, arms lightly encircling her in case she were to fall. Which she did. “Oww.”

“Where?”

“My knee.”

“Which one?”

“Left.” She knew the next question and she hated that it had to be asked. “Yes, you can look at it. It’s a knee, Sebastian, not anything you haven’t seen before when we used to swim.”

Bash placed her on his horse, allowing him to examine the offending knee without too much trouble. “You definitely sprained it. You sit there and I’ll walk the horse.”

“That’s no fun.”

“Well, you can’t walk, and the horse can.”

“Carry me, Bash?”

Bash groaned. Many a girl in Mary’s absence had tried this trick to make him fall into bed with her. It was not that he thought Mary would do anything of the sort – she certainly didn’t see him that way – but there were rules. Rules that could not be broken even in the silent night with no one around.

“No, I think you’ll be fine up there. He’ll behave for you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tempest.”

“Hello, Tempest. I’m not sure if Queens have dominion over horses, but even if we don’t, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“You said we were just a boy and a girl tonight,” Bash reminded Mary gently.

“I suppose I haven’t acted like one of those for so long, I’ve forgotten how.”

“Tell me about the convent. Surely you were just a girl there.”

“In theory. I was supposed to be. I dressed the same, ate the same foods, even if they were tested, and did many of the chores that the nuns and the other girls did. But I was always different.”

“My brother told me you know how to milk a goat?”

“Yes, yes I do.” She sounded quite proud of her ability.

“There you go, Mary, that’s something normal peasant people do. Although cows and sheep are more likely to be milked. Don’t they have ridiculous furry cows in Scotland?”

“Highland cows, yes. But the monastery wasn’t there. And cows are expensive to keep.”

“Well, I’m sure the mechanics of milking a cow and a goat are similar,” Bash said with a smile up to her. She still wasn’t smiling, though, and Bash wracked his brain trying to figure out a way to get her to relax, to smile.

“Do you want to hear something ridiculous?”

“What?”

“Well, it all started with a bucket of slops for the pigs and Charles….” Bash began. By the time he had finished they were back at the Castle and Mary had tears running down her cheeks from laughing so hard.

Bash tied the horse to a trough, helping Mary to slide off the horse and into his arms. He knew he couldn’t carry her like that without some sort of questions, but he also could tell simply by holding her underneath her knees that there was no way she was going to be able to even hobble on that knee. It was hot, inflamed and growing in swollenness quickly. Her health was more important than some damn medieval sense of modesty.

Nostradamus opened the door at the first knock. “Where?”

“My left knee,” Mary winced as Bash set her on the bed.

“Sebastian, you must go.”

“I know – I just wanted to make sure she got here.”

“She’s here and she’s safe. Now go.”

            And so he started to. Not because he wanted to. Not even really because he knew it was for the best. But because he could feel the pull of her, and seeing the tears of laughter turn into tears of pain was killing him. Why couldn’t they be happy? Why couldn’t they just _be_?

            He had his hand on the door, ready to open it and step away from the chaos of his mind around her when he heard her voice, faint. “Thank you Bash,” she paused, presumably waiting for him to turn, which he didn’t. “for being my escape.”

            ---

            _Author’s Note – I hate the way Bash made this one turn out. I wanted pure fluff and instead I got this weird mix of fluff and angst. I would have left it out, but the Bash in my head (the cheeky devil that he is) said to let you all have it. So… hopefully it’s not as bad as I thought it to be.  
_


	6. In Which Antoinette Returns

They were lying on their backs in the sunshine, looking up at the clouds. It was really much, much too cold to do so, but when Mary saw the sunshine and had grabbed Bash’s hand, running out into the November air. She knew it would be one of the last nice days they would have before the “eternal winter” as one of the cooks had called it, set in. She had brought blankets, spreading some out on the ground, and others she used to cover herself and Bash. Her head resting on his chest, she felt so content. They were going to be married in two days’ time. Two days! It was hardly real.

 “Bash?”

“Mmh?” His fingers gently ran through her hair, fanned out around her.

“Are you happy?”

“Perfectly. And you, Mary, Queen of Scots, are you happy?”

“I am. Except…”

Bash let out a sigh. “What is it?”

“I wish Grandmamma could be here for the wedding.”

“I do too. I like that woman very much.”

“You know, it’s partially her fault that we’re together,” Mary mused.

“Oh no, Mary Eilidh Stuart, if you had listened to me in the first place, it would not have taken you so damn long to return to Scotland and marry the right son of France.”

Mary sat up, noticing for the first time a woman standing to the side of her. “Grandmamma!” She jumped up, nearly knocking the older woman over in her enthusiasm to hug her.

Antoinette chuckled. “Yes, dear, I’m here.” She spoke over Mary’s head, in Bash’s direction as she continued, “Thank you for the invitation. Though, I will say that took an unhealthy dose of cheeky courage to summon me to your wedding before there officially was going to _be_ a wedding.”

“Ah, well, I had to try. And if I was wrong, I could at least enjoy the pleasure of your company, Madam.”

“Toni. You are to call me Toni,” Antoinette said with a roll of her eyes.

Mary had let go of her grandmother and stood slightly to the side, observing the two. “You knew? You knew I was going to come back? That I was going to marry you?”

“It was a dream – I didn’t believe it until Nostradamus wrote me to say that he had been having the exact same vision. And I didn’t write until you returned to Edinburgh.”

“And so I had no say in the matter?” Mary’s hands went to her hips, challenging him.

“You had every say in the matter, Mary. I could never get you to do anything you didn’t want to do. It was a hope – a hope that you would come back to me. And if I was wrong about the wedding, about your feelings for me, you at least would have your Grandmother who is a good influence on your rule.”

“And you,” Mary turned, pointing a finger, “You knew all of this and never said a word?”

“Didn’t I tell you what seems like years ago, that you should marry him?” Antoinette retorted. “Are you not happy I am here? Or, are you angry at how I got here?” She posed the question so well that it was almost as if someone had poked Mary with a pin and let all the hot air out – she deflated.

“I am ecstatic you are here, Grandmamma. I just wish this was more of my own doing.”

“Darling, you should have learned by now – none of your decisions will ever be your own entirely. There will always be something, be it Fate, or someone, be it Sebastian or Master Nostradamus, which helps to guide your decision. You made the decision yourself, but it was not your own.”

Mary nodded, recognition slowly dawning.

"Now, if you don't mind, I would speak to Bash, alone." Antoinette said, guiding her future grandson-in-law away from Mary and the Palace.

"Be back in time for supper. Bash needs to sit in on my Council meeting," Mary reminded gently to her fiancé. Turning to her grandmother she added, "And don't scare him too much. I will have a husband." She smirked at the pair before gathering the blankets and floating off.

"Now, Bash..." Antoinette whacked him on the back of the head. "What took you so long?"

"Ow."

"That's all you have to say? Ow? My future great grandchildren are at stake and you say 'Ow'?"

Bash blushed, the color tinging everything from his face to his ears a bright red. "Madam..."

"Toni. Unless we're in those god awful Council meetings and then 'My Lady' will do."

"Toni, it was not my decision to make. You know that as well as I do."

"You left her though. I had half a mind to find you and kill you myself when I got her first letter after you up and left. She didn't know what she had done wrong - everyone had left her and she felt so alone. She did not say it, but if she had the option, she may have done something foolish." Antoinette looked at him, her mouth a thin line of anger. "You swore to me that you would take care of her. That you would protect her. And then you go and leave! Explain this logic to me."

Bash knew this conversation was coming ever since she had agreed to return once more to Scotland for her granddaughter.  Antoinette was fiercely protective of her only surviving granddaughter and to her, Bash had done something wrong that needed to be punished. Still, nothing could prepare Bash for the look of _disappointment_ in her face, nor the sinking feeling in his stomach at that look.

"I never wanted to leave. But Francis did not like our relationship and..."

"That boy is an idiot and may heaven help France without my daughter to guide them." Antoinette interjected.

"It wasn't just Francis, Toni. I am half-pagan.  King Henry doesn't know as far as I know, nor does Mary, but it puts her in grave danger."

"I have heard the rumors about your mother, Diane, though I highly doubt it is nearly as perilous as it sounds."

"I swore to protect your granddaughter and in doing so I made an enemy of a sect of the pagans: the Blood Cult. They marked her and she was supposed to be their sacrifice."

"Well," Antoinette drawled sarcastically, "she's alive. So what of it?"

"I am dangerous! I can kill without even thinking if it's for her. I would do anything for her. She doesn't need that kind of pressure to defend my actions. The French Court was enough. But I couldn't let her go. So I left her a way that if she decided all the risks were worth it, if she needed something Francis, my father and France could not provide, she would know where to find me."

"Tell me Bash, do you want children?"

The abrupt change in questioning made Bash stop, turning to her. "Yes. I want a whole castle filled with little girls and boys who look like her, have her courage but maybe a touch less stubbornness." His eyes lit up as he spoke of the future and the potential children. "Of course, I haven't discussed this with Mary so I don't know if she wants more than the requisite 'heir and spare.'"

"Oh, she does. Growing up she was pushed and pulled around so much - she was always lonely it seemed. Better in France than in Scotland, true, but she never wished her children to be alone." Antoinette revealed. "I ask because Mary is slim. Childbirth will not be easy for her, just as it wasn't for her mother."

"Why are you telling me this, Toni?" Bash asked. He put a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it as he waited for an answer.

"Because you say you will do anything to keep Mary safe, and presumably happy. If you know the risks of children for her, would you deny her and you the joy of many children to keep her alive?"

Bash swallowed hard, looking at the ground. "I...I would feel selfish wanting more and would probably deny myself that want, yes. Though usually what Mary wants, she gets."

"Sebastian, you are both adults for all intents of the word. You can choose if that risk is worth it. But you must do it together. You are a team, a pair made in heaven and that team only works if you let her decide when she needs your protection. Otherwise you will end up miserable and separated by different goals."

Bash nodded. "It's going to be hard..."

"Marriage is hard work. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. You make her happy and it seems you have an excellent head on your shoulders so I can see you becoming a fine Prince Consort. You care and Mary loves that attention - but do not let that care scare you from living. My husband was terrified of losing me for one reason or another and so I decided that I did not need him."

"Mary never told me..."

"She never knew her grandfather? Oh, well he went and died shortly after she was born." Antoinette said with a shrug. "Now, we have got to get you back to the Council of Ministers or the Loch Lomond monster will emerge from your sweetheart."

Bash chuckled. "The Loch Lomond monster?"

"Oh, you've never been have you? Loch Lomond is a beautiful lake near Glasgow. Beautiful until a storm kicks up and then it's like the devil himself is punishing you for breathing."

Bash's chuckle turned into a full-on laugh. "That's Mary. She came into my life like an icy storm but with fire in her veins."

* * *

 

"Mary?" It had been a very very long afternoon of meetings and Mary wanted to do nothing more than sleep. The Council was in an uproar not only about their pending wedding, but of the broken treaty with France. Mary, of course, had the beginnings of a plan but she couldn't tell them that. Instead she let them rage and rant for near on five hours. She had managed to escape using the escape of needing to change before the evening meal. Unless it was Bash telling her that he was locking her in her room with a headache remedy and all the sleep she wanted, she really didn't want to hear from anyone else.

"Can this wait Grandmamma?"

"I won't take long, I promise."

"The sun would stop shining the day you kept that promise."

"I see your Scottish temper hasn't been affected by the time in France."

Mary sighed, leaning against the wall. She was just feet from her room...

"Since your mother, my ridiculous daughter, has made it clear she does not approve of the match," Mary winced as Antoinette continued, "she will not give you the talk about children, heirs, and marital duties, that falls to me."

"Grandmamma, I helped deliver babies at the nunnery. I know how a baby is made and the duties expected of me as Queen."

"Did you learn about pleasure?" Antoinette asked, ever the blunt silver-haired independent woman.

"Grandmamma!"

"If you have any questions you may come to me. I don't want to lecture. I only want to tell you one thing: sex is not a duty, it's supposed to be fun. And if Sebastian doesn't listen, you kick him out right there. You have every right to happiness than he does." Antoinette pulled a bag from her dress. "And trust me, you do not want a baby immediately after getting married. Take this tea every morning until you and Sebastian decide it's time."

Mary raised a cautious eyebrow. "And Scotland?"

"It will not fall if you wait a year to start."

Mary nodded. "Can you send Bash to my room? I want to talk to him about something before the meal."

"Yes, my love." Antoinette closed the gap between them, kissing her granddaughter's forehead.  "You will make a wonderful wife and an even better mother."

When Bash came into Mary's room she was fast asleep, curled up in a tight ball, still in her gown. Instead of waking her, he removed her shoes, then his own and his jacket, and lay down next to her, pulling her close to him, taking a deep breath in, smelling her lavender and honey soap. He was so lucky, Toni was right. He just couldn't waste good.


	7. In Which There's a Baker and Six Children

"Bash, tell me about the months you were here before I came," Mary asked, head resting on his shoulder. They were in the covered sleigh at the very beginning of their honeymoon slash diplomacy tour, just having left Edinburgh proper.

"You sure you want to hear this story? It's very boring."

"You mean you weren't fighting pirates every day in my absence?"

"Hardly. Though there was a fair bit of travelling." And so, letting his bride adjust into a more comfortable position (if one was to be had a sleigh), he began. "I came by way of the white cliffs in England..."

* * *

Bash stepped off the ship, the French coastline still visible behind him, and proceeded to immediately throw up. The short journey hadn't made him ill - all the alcohol he had consumed while on the ship had. He hadn't planned on being sauced, but then again the captain kept pouring and the wounds were still fresh. He was leaving the one he loved, the one he would love forever, behind, probably to marry another man and have his babies. It was enough to drive almost any man to drink.

"Now there, chap, where are you headed?" The innkeeper had asked in a thick accent when Bash had stumbled in.

"Scotland."

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow, "And what, pray tell, makes you want to visit the scoundrels up north?"

"I have business with their queen." Or he _had_ business with her. Now he just had a shadow of a dream of what could have been.

"Mary, Queen of Scots? She's half-wild they say, likes to maim and torture for the fun of it. And, I've heard they like to eat sheep innards." The innkeeper kept his voice low and his head bowed, as if he was revealing some disturbing news that was not to be spread.

Bash threw his head back laughing at the absurdity and the truth of it all. "Well, now there's a tale." Bash had the moment now to choose a cover story or to tell the truth. While the truth may have been more ethical, it was not the easiest or safest option. "I haven't met the lady so I can't comment on the first two. But the third thing is called haggis and it's delicious. You don't waste food if you can. Anyhow, what do you think your sausages are wrapped in anyway?"

The innkeeper left him alone after that. He had intended to work in order to pay for a horse, but that hardly seemed an option once he saw the prices in England. And so, after a few day's rest, he set off walking to Scotland.

He met many friendly people along the way, though a few were not. It wasn't until he reached the North of England and the town of York that he was able to get a horse. The inn there was run by a very old woman who asked Bash if he could fix her leaking roof. It had driven away all the regular customers and she was close to starving, she said. She confided in him over what little food she had (supplemented by the rabbit Bash had caught earlier in the day), that an illness had passed through the inn, and while everyone turned out fine, the people of York did not trust her and saw the leaky roof as God's punishment. Bash couldn't understand why they would do such a thing but crazier things had happened.

And so he did one better than fixing her roof - he convinced citizens to return to the inn for their usual meals. In his debt, the woman offered him anything he wanted. He had saved her and her home. Seeing how old and frail she was, Bash asked for her horse.

A month after he had set off from those white cliffs, Bash crossed the border into Scotland. It was beautiful. So green that it almost made his eyes hurt. A sort of mist hung about, making the land seem more mysterious - and like it was a challenge to be conquered.

Bash went slowly from then on, taking each town in a week or more at a time. He was biding his time until there was news. Or a stable job. Bash proved himself a hard and dedicated worker but only for a few days before he would move on. He made it from one coast to another before he went north, crossing the Highlands to a small town with a funny name: Aberdeen.

It was there, after two weeks, that he settled down. He found work with a baker. It was mostly manual labor but as Bash got to know the baker and his unruly mob, he learned the trade. He also got to know the townspeople. They did not trust him, but they were willing to take a chance on this French man. And in time, he learned to trust them - eventually telling them the truth: he came to Scotland to find her, and maybe if he couldn't find her, he could find himself.

It was a warm August day when word reached the town that the Queen was returning - apparently the Queen Regent had received word that Mary was returning, for good. With a hope in his heart, and the urging of many in the town, he packed his things and went down to Edinburgh.

The city was in a tizzy at the news and even though Mary would not return for weeks, it seemed every citizen was up and out doing something to make the city look better. Bash easily found the thistle garden Mary had described to him, though he was promptly shooed off the grounds of the Castle once they noticed him lurking. It seemed like ages before Mary arrived in the city. She spoke to the people from the steps of the Palace, eyes searching, though her tone was every bit regal. Bash knew she would go to the garden every day, waiting for him.

He didn't intend to make her wait so long. But first he had to send word to Antoinette about a pending wedding, and then he had to wait for her to at least be close. Bash did not want to live in sin if it could be helped, and he wanted the woman that brought them together through truth, to be there at the wedding.

But Bash was honest with himself - now that Mary was back (and doing such a good job at ruling it seemed), he questioned if making himself known was the best thing. He was again working at a bakery - this time just outside the Palace gates, and he was once again building a life without her. But he felt so hollow. It would be worth it if she was happy, he had told himself. However, then the rumors started. The Queen was ill, she would not eat, and she only came out of her rooms to walk the gardens or for state functions.

That was when he knew. They couldn't live without one another and they shouldn't even try. And so, with news that Antoinette would be there within the week, Bash went to the thistle garden. He remembered her saying that it had been one of her favorite spots to hide during the little snippets of time she spent in Scotland. She had said that the thistle was the flower of Scotland. It looked prickly, and certainly could be, but it was beautiful and strong and fragrant. It was the symbol of her people and that made it all the more lovely.

Even though it was fall and snow had just begun to coat the mountains near Edinburgh, the thistles still grew. Strong in times of conflict – just like his Mary. He noticed the bench – new since the last time he had visited the garden. This time there were no guards roaming it, just one girl sitting on a bench in the mist, watching the sun go down. She had a deep red hood on – one Bash recognized from when she returned to France from the convent, partially hiding her face. What he could see, of her face, of her body, frightened him. She was thin – so much more than he had ever seen her. She looked exhausted. She looked _broken_. He had been so wrong to stay away.

So he stepped into the fading light, making his presence known for her periphery vision. She stood and faced him, her voice barely carrying his name the distance to him. “It took you long enough to realize what I meant.” He stopped, that same cheeky grin on his face. He didn’t walk any further towards her, merely opening his arms. It didn’t take her long at all to practically fall into his arms. His suspicions about her weight were confirmed when his arms wrapped around her, tightly, securely, but with more overlap than had been possible just a few months earlier. They would have to work on that. Close up, as a hand went to her cheek to caress it, she looked even worse. She needed sleep at the very least. And a few good meals and maybe a few rides.

 “You told me to not come lightly. To make the right decision, for me, for Scotland, for everyone.”

He smiled ruefully, resting a hand on her cheek. “And what, Mary, is your decision? Whose are you now?” It was almost a dream, having her here, with him. But there were questions that needed to be answered. Hard questions with consequential answers so dangerous that to even think them brought despair. At that moment they may have been acting like two lovers reunited, but they held two nations on their shoulders and neither one had chosen it – and only one could shake his off easily.

She smiled up at him. “I am nobody’s. Nobody can claim me because I am as wild, free, and dangerous as the Highlands my father loved. I am not Francis’, or France’s, or my mother’s, or your’s, or even Scotland’s.”

Bash’s hand dropped from her cheek and he looked down. So this was it. The bakers’ family in Aberdeen told him he would always have a place at their table. Even if they could not afford to pay him, what they had was his. He was like their son, they had said. But even that option would be a costly one. She would be his queen. He would have to obey her edicts and orders (though, he admitted, he would follow any order she gave him simply because he was he and she was she). If she came to visit, he would have to act like she was just the Queen of Scotland, and not the queen of his heart. He sounded like a sap and it almost disgusted him how much so. Oh gods, why was she taking so long to answer? Why… and then she began to laugh.

It was almost cruel, the way she toyed with him. And he told her so. He was not some plaything to be cast aside without an answer.

 “I do not. I am not a piece of property, Sebastian. I have my own mind, my own will and my own soul. I have been ruled by too many other people for too long. It is time I started being my own person – whomever that is. But,” her voice lowered and she took his hands in hers, “I would love it if you would stand beside me, as Prince, every day for the rest of our lives. I want to wake up to those eyes and have your heart guide me when mine is lost. I want _you_ , Bash.” She paused, looking at his shining eyes reflecting what she imagined her own were showing: pure happiness and love. “Bash, marry me.”

“No.” His smirk grew. Yes, he would marry her. Of course he would. But they needed to do this properly… “That’s not how it’s done. This is how it’s done.” He dropped down on one knee and with the biggest grin that threatened to split his face if he was to hold it for much longer, he said, “Marry me, Mary Queen of Scots, and make me the luckiest bastard on earth.”

* * *

"And you know the rest, my love," Bash said, kissing her forehead.

"How could you doubt that I loved you?"

"Because that was the easiest thing to do - make it one-sided so I was merely misguided."

“But you weren’t misguided. I love you now, I loved you then. It’s…” Mary searched for the word, “absolutely ridiculous.”

 “Yes, it is. But people do crazy things for lesser causes.”

Mary smiled up at him, “I suppose they do. Now… Grandmamma had a talk with me…”

Bash groaned. “As she had with me, I imagine. Does this have anything to do with children?”

Mary chuckled. “Yes, dear. Everything.” She shifted so she was lying, head on his lap, hand intertwined with his. She looked so happy and Bash couldn’t help but thank whatever gods that be that they had ended up together.

“How many do you want?” She posed.

Bash hesitated for a moment, weighing the options. To say one thing would be lying. To not say the other would surely earn him a slap to the head and potentially a cold bed on their wedding night – not something he wanted at all. While he could go another few years without showing her just how much he loved her, he also craved that intimacy. “Do you want the truth or the proper answer?”

“Both.”

“The proper answer is as many as you want.”

“And the truth?”

“As many as you will give me. I want a whole horde of little girls running through Holyrood, causing havoc. I want a whole troop of little boys, chasing them around the grounds.” Bash looked down at his wife, stroking her hair. “And what about you? How many do you want?”

“Bash…” Mary closed her eyes for a moment, tightly, as if she was afraid. “To be honest, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of even having one. But, for my country…”

“No.” Bash said firmly. “Your body is not Scotland. If we have no children, then Scotland will figure out a way to move on after we do. You have every right to say no.”

“I’ve always imagined having six children when I was a little girl. I don’t know why six. Just the number always seemed like the right amount.”

“Six little hellians, makes perfect sense. Plus, that’s half a skinty side.”

“How do you…”

Bash shrugged. “I didn’t bake every day.” He smiled down, once more. “I distracted you, go on.”

“I wanted six children – three girls, three boys. But I am so afraid of losing one, of the way in which I will become weak by them, that I’m not sure I should…”

“Let me see if I understand what you’re saying correctly. You are afraid that having children will make you weak?”

“Yes.”

“And how long have you felt this way?”

“Since I heard the story of the twins that Catherine lost.”

Bash nodded, willing her to continue.

“I don’t want to become bitter like that. I don’t want to lose my judgment because I am a mother before I am a queen. I don’t want…”

“Mary, take a moment, and think. Do you think that you cannot be a great mother and a good and wise Queen? I think the qualities needed for both are much the same – nurturing, caring, and standing up for the little ones. You have all those qualities.”

Mary considered what Bash said for a moment and then nodded. “So, six it is.”


	8. In Which Jamie Arrives

           “Mary,” Aylee called out to her friend, quietly. She, Greer, and Lola had returned a few months ago, citing the need to serve their friend, the Queen. Kenna had wanted to stay for King Henry, and within a month of arriving in Scotland, Lola had married a baron in Inverness, leaving the castle permanently. She had sent news she was pregnant and so wouldn’t be back for the court season this year.

            Mary was hunched over, head resting on her settee. She raised her head with a groan. “Aylee?”

            “Are you feeling any better? I brought you some tea.”

            “Honestly, not that much. I’m tired and I’m surprised I can keep anything down.”

            Aylee sat down next to her friend, holding the mug out to her. “So, I guess you’re sure now?”

            “Yes. Though the doctor says I am supposed to wait until the end of the month to tell Bash, in case something goes wrong.”

            “Well, that won’t be that difficult since he’s supposed to be gone until then.”

            Mary sighed, sitting up to take the mug, taking it and sipping it slowly. “I wish he was home now. It would make me feel better. I am so tired all the time and you know how I don’t sleep well without him.”

            “He won’t be gone long. You know he needed to go to the Netherlands to speak to the King there.”

            “I just wish he could…”

            “Be back?” Aylee rubbed her friend’s back, “I know. We all know.” Aylee stood up, a smile on her face. “Let’s go for a walk. If we don’t get you up and dressed people are going to keep talking. And we don’t want the news to reach Bash before he returns, do we?”

            “What news?” A booming voice asked through the open door.

            Mary turned around, her whole face lighting up. “Bash!”

            Bash crossed the threshold of the room, quickly closing the distance between himself and Mary, picking her up as if she was nothing, twirling her in his arms. “Hello my love. Glad to see me?”

            Mary gave a small nod to Aylee, who closed the door behind her, leaving the husband and wife alone.

            “Am I ever? It’s been so long, Bash.” She buried her head in his shoulder, willing herself not to cry. He felt so good, so real, so warm, and so safe. She could feel his lips on her hair, her neck, leading her to the bed.

            “What was your news?”

            “Not no,” she sighed. “I’ll tell you after.”

* * *

 

            Mary was exhausted, eyes half shut as she lay, back against Bash’s chest, feeling his arms wrapped tightly around her.

            “My love?”

            “Mmh?” She said, turning her head ever so slightly to see him.

            “Are you feeling all right? You look so pale.”

            Mary smiled. “Oh, I am perfectly well. I am just very, very tired.”

            “And what of your news?”

            “You are insistent.”

            “I’ve been gone for a month and I have missed you. I want to hear all about what has happened to you.” He kissed her cheek, “I want to hear about all the meals I missed, if there was any gossip to hear about, who you danced with, if you’ve found someone for Aylee, or if Lola’s run away from her husband yet.” His questions were met with silence. He craned her head to look at her, and found her asleep.

* * *

 

            “Have you been this tired the entire time I’ve been away? You were tired before I left too,” Bash asked, pulling on a shirt.

            “I have. Some days are worse than others; this week has been the worst.”

            “Should we call the doctor?” Bash asked, looking ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice.

            “No, I am fine. I will be fine. I’ve got a meeting with the Council later today, but before then, can we walk to the thistle garden?”

            “Walk? With your energy so low? No, we can ride there.”

            “But the doctor…” The minute the beginning of that sentence came out of Mary’s mouth, she knew it was the wrong thing to say. She could practically hear Bash’s heart rate accelerate, see his eyes widen and the way he rushed over to sit down next to her. It was as if she was to disappear in the next few minutes if he was not by her side. No, if it was bad news, did he think she would wait to tell him? Then again, the same thing could be said for good news as well.

            The two shared nearly everything with each other. At first, it had taken some getting used to. She and Francis held many secrets and so to say everything she was thinking, feeling, and doing at any given moment almost felt stifling. How was she to have private thoughts? The first few months of their marriage were infamous around the castle as Mary tried to keep matters of state away from Bash who insisted to be at least a part of the conversation.

             He would argue that it was not the decision he wanted to help her make – she was and always would be the better diplomat than he – but he wanted to be with her, holding her hand and offering what advice he could. He would often argue (quite passionately and loudly) that he couldn’t help if he didn’t know what the problem was. After these arguments – brief but strong enough to shake the stone walls – they would end up somewhere, ripping each other’s clothes off, desperate to show the other that they didn’t mean the accusations that got flung about.

            It happened so often the first two or three months that they were married that any time they raised their voices, the castle staff had been instructed by Mary’s temporary maids to stay put, lest they walk in on the couple in the midst of their “makeups.” Mary almost smiled in memory of a couple of times when they hadn’t made it to a room.

            So really, the fact that Mary was not pregnant within a week of their marriage was surprise to everyone except Mary and Bash. They had decided to wait until at least Mary’s friends had returned to truly start trying – without the aid of herbs to keep Mary barren. By that time they would have been married past six months and they could enjoy being newlyweds without the pressure of a baby.

            Though, of course, the pressure came. Not from Toni, who insisted that it was Mary and Bash’s decision, not Scotland’s, when to have a child. But from Marie, Mary’s absent mother, from the whispers in the corridors by the servants and surprisingly enough, from King Henry of France. The first and last she could easily ignore, the gossip though, stung.

            “What did the doctor say?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “But you can’t ride?”

            “Not until the end of the month.”

            “What happens at the end of the month?” Mary could feel his insistence grow as she didn’t answer. “What happens at the end of the month, Mary?”

            Mary shook her head. “This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

            “Tell me what? Mary, you’re scaring me.”

            “I wanted it to be beautiful, as beautiful as when we saw each other in the thistle garden.”

            “What? What did you want to be beautiful?” Bash’s eyes were wide and his hands went to Mary’s shoulders, trying to get her to look at him. “What’s going on Mary?”

            “Because, it’s going to change our lives. And Scotland’s…”

            “Mary, please, my love, what is it? What did the doctor say?”

            Finally, Mary looked at Bash with a big grin. “We’re going to have a baby.”

            Mary was happy Bash had been sitting down when she told him. Because she was pretty sure he would faint dead away if he had been standing. Bash jumped off the bed, scooping her up and twirling her around. And then, it was as if he actually realized what she had said, he stopped spinning and gently sat her feet on the ground.

            Mary just laughed, face flush with excitement and from the spinning. Even with her morning sickness, the twirling which had aggravated, she felt so well and so _alive_. It was a feeling like none other.

            “Are you okay? How are you feeling? When it she coming? Is there anything I should be doing? Should you be attending to matters of state in your condition?” The words flew out and Mary couldn’t help but continue to laugh.

            “Mary, I’m serious, I’ve never been a father before!” Bash said with a groan. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

            Mary stopped laughing, fixing him with a small smile. “I’ve never been a mother, either. But we’ll figure it out – together.”

            “What I asked earlier? Are you okay? How are you feeling? When is she coming? Is there anything I should be doing? Should you be attending to matters of state in your condition?”

            “One at a time. And let me get a breath in before you start up again,” Mary scolded Bash gently. “I am tired, yes, and I can’t keep much down, but I am fine otherwise. He or she, I don’t know why you think it’s a girl, I’m convinced it’s a boy actually, is due in June, the doctor says.” Mary smiled at Bash who had taken to pacing as she answered his questions, one after another. “No, there’s nothing you should be doing, besides of course being the perfect husband you are, and bringing me salad, which I can’t seem to get enough of.”

            Bash stopped pacing, turning with a look in his eyes. “Salad? I can get you salad right now if you…”

            “No, not now. I’m not hungry. As for attending to matters of state, do you think you have any power over me to stop me from being the Queen of my nation?”

            Bash chuckled. “You’re right on that account. I can’t stop you from doing anything. Whether or not I think it’s in your best interest.” He went over to his wife and grinned. “We’re having a baby!”

            “Yes, my love, we’re having a baby!”

            ***

            If the castle had thought their makeups loud during the first few months, the middle months of Mary’s pregnancy were that much worse. But then, on an unseasonably hot day in June, Mary found herself drenched in sweat, pacing the hallways. She was uncomfortable and snappish, being curt to whomever passed by her. Especially Bash.

            “Are you sure you are all right?”

            “If you ask me that one more time, Sebasatian, I am going to have to execute my own husband. And I’m not going to feel bad about it at…Ahhh…” Mary nearly doubled over as the first strong contraction hit.

            “Mary!” Bash called for the guards, the midwife and anyone who would listen, as he carried her to their bedroom. He was supposed to be promptly shooed out, but Mary wouldn’t have it. “Oh no, Duke Bash, you got me into this mess, you get to help me get out of it.”

            He ended up sitting behind her, legs spread on either side of her, rubbing her back and placing kisses on her hair as she whimpered. Mary had told herself that she wasn’t going to cry out – she wasn’t going to scream because it wasn’t dignified for a queen to scream. Instead, she bit her lip nearly through, and whimpered, writhing in her agony.

            “Mary, you can yell. Nobody will think you less a Queen if you scream,” the midwife reminded her throughout the delivery. “In fact, your baby will come quicker if you scream as you push.”

            But Mary was stubborn and she took her duties as Queen seriously. So, in the early hours of the morning, the first scream the castle heard was that of their newest prince.

            “A boy! It’s a boy.”

            “I told you it would be,” Mary said exhaustedly as their son was placed in her arms for the first time.

            “What’s his name so that it can announced and the bells rung?”

            “James. James Henry Albert Stuart.”

            “Well that’s a mouthful. I don’t even have a middle name,” Bash said, settling down next to Mary.

            “I have one but since this is to be the next King of Scotland, and maybe England, it’s time for his heritage to be honored,” Mary said, eyes never leaving her son as he began to nurse. “Plus,” she glanced up at Bash, “we’ll call him Jamie.”

            “I like that. Jamie Stuart.” Bash stroked his newborn son’s head. “Thank you.”

            “For what?”

            “For giving me everything. For marrying me, for giving me a son… you’ve given me everything.”

            Mary couldn’t help but smile at him, at him and her son, Jamie. “I love you so much.” She leaned over to kiss Bash, and then added under her breath, “but we’re not doing that for a few more years, please.”


	9. In Which They Fly

Waking up on the morning of her wedding was not at all what Mary imagined. It was so much _better_. She bounded out of bed, before jumping back on it, twirling around, eyes to the canopy near her head. Her grin was so large it actually looked painful.

“My, we’re happy this morning,” Antoinette commented as she walked in to her granddaughter’s chambers.

“I’m getting married today, Grandmamma!”

“Yes, child, you are. But not in your nightgown.”

Mary flew down from her twirling perch and hugged her grandmother, nearly knocking her over in the process. “Oh, I feel like I could fly.”

Antoinette chuckled. “Just wait until tonight. Then you’ll really think you’re flying.”

Mary’s cheeks flushed as she understood what Antoinette was implying. She pulled away slowly, face still aglow with happiness as her handmaids and those specially tasked with getting her ready for her wedding, came in, one by one, each with either a bucket of hot water for her bath, or some sort of crème, scrubber, trimmer, or other form of usual torture.

She climbed in easily, laughing at her handmaids’ surprise. Baths were usually only taken in times of dire necessity, and definitely not something to enjoy. That might have something to do with the fact that baths were almost always taken in a nearby stream so for most of the year, this was a horrifying prospect because of the water temperature. But Mary, raised as well-to-do and with a mind of her own, loved her baths. She loved letting herself get all shriveled as she soaked and loved the feeling of giving herself a head massage when she shampooed her long hair.

Her hair was so long and thick, in fact, that they had insisted that she wash it the day before her wedding so that it would be dry. Now it was carefully tucked away, it cascading down the side of the copper tub. She was not used to so much attention for a bath, but she let each of the prep maids do their job, cleaning and trimming her fingernails, scrubbing her arms and shoulders which would be nearly bare for the ceremony.

In the end, by the time she was out of the bath, toweled off and all the right lotions, potions and other ointments had been applied to her body, some of the excitement had worn off and Mary felt tired.

“Drink this, and this, and then we’ll leave you for an hour for a rest,” Antoinette said gently.

“What are they?” Mary asked, dutifully drinking both. One was a thick, murky green concoction that tasted as nasty as it looked, and another minty one.

“One is your birth control so you don’t get pregnant tonight, as we’ve discussed. Another is to keep you calm. That excitement will keep you awake, but my dear, you can’t be flying around the room once we start on your hair.”

Mary nodded and climbed back into her bed for a nap, tucked in by the loving grandmother.

* * *

 

Five hours later, Mary was finally deemed fit to put on her dress and do the final adjustments before she walked down the aisle. The dress had been a gift from Antoinette and had packed it in her trunk. It was a pale blue sweetheart neckline ball gown with an open lace all over it. The back didn’t have the lace, instead it had layers and layers of long ice blue tulle, floating down her legs to a train. It was perfect and so _her_ , that Mary almost cried when they brought it in.

They put her in heels, placed the veil on her head, careful of her hair, then the tiara and that, _that_ was when it really sunk in. She was the Queen of Scotland and she was marrying the love of her life, Sebastian. If the women helping her hadn’t scolded her a million times about not crying because she would mess up her makeup, she would have cried. This was real. This was happening.

“Thank you, thank you, all of you. I look… amazing.”

“Just wait till he sees you,” one of the maids blurted out, hiding her mistake with a giggle and hands over her mouth.

“Indeed. If Bash is not speechless then you should throw him back and demand a redo,” Antoinette added.

With a smile on her face and Antoinette on her side, Mary down walked to the gallery where her future husband waited.

“Are you ready?” Antoinette asked. As a Queen, no one would walk Mary down the aisle so her grandmother would have to leave her now to get a seat.

“Are you ever truly ready for something like this? Something so life-changing?”

Antoinette chuckled. “There’s my philosopher granddaughter. No, you’re never ready. Marriage changes you – but if you choose the right person, it will be for the best. And I think Bash is that person.”

“So do I.”

“Then say a prayer and collect your thoughts so I can get to my seat. Once I sit, that’s a cue for the music to start and for you to walk in.”

“I know, Grandmamma.”

“I’m reminding you because I know the minute that music starts you are going to think the world has ended and you will freeze. Just as you’re going to freeze when Bash sees you for the first time, or when the priest asks you to say something. Just remember, you are the Queen of Scotland and you can have anyone’s head who decides to laugh at those frozen moments.”

Mary laughed. “Thank you,” She kissed her grandmother’s cheek and then was let alone, with her thoughts. She wasn’t terrified. She was excited but not recklessly so. In fact, in those brief moments of silence before the bagpipes began to play, she felt _peace_.

This not only was the right thing to do for her, but for Scotland, and for France. She would have made a horrible French Queen. It was very obvious as she stood there, beaming, waiting for the bagpipes. She was through and through a Scot and nothing could change that. Nobody should want to either, as Antoinette continued to remind her.

Then, as the bagpipes began to play, the nervousness suddenly flew in, just as the doors flew open and she was nearly blinded by the light in the Gallery. Her eyes immediately found Bash as she stepped into the light. He looked positively dashing standing there in his finery, even if she knew he much preferred his rough cloth and leather pants. His eyes radiated love, even from across the room, and his mouth was slightly ajar as he drank her in. Mary had never felt so adored in all her life. With a hesitant step, and then another more confident one, she began the walk down the aisle. It was time.

* * *

 

            Bash had never felt so scrubbed raw and out of place in his life. He didn’t think he had ever been so clean in his entire life. It was an odd experience and one he was not ever willing to repeat – no matter how much he loved the woman he would be marrying in a short amount of time. He was wearing such finery – it itched and was just generally uncomfortable.

But the moment the bagpipes began to play, everything melted away. She was standing there, in a pale blue dress with white lace, holding a bouquet of white heather (something Mary had mentioned was a Scottish tradition), looking like an angel. _His_ angel. He felt his mouth drop slightly as his eyes roamed over her. If she could see the gaze his eyes were directing to each part of her body, she would see the way his eyes poured love out to her feet, her hips, her waist, her breasts, her hands, arms, shoulder, neck, ears, nose…everything. Bash knew he would never need wine again – he could just get drunk on her.

When she reached the altar, Bash was surprised to find tears running down Mary’s cheeks.

 _What is wrong, my love?_ His eyes asked.

 _Nothing. I am just so happy._ Hers answered.

The ceremony continued, though Bash refused to let go of her hand. When it came to their vows, Mary went first, starting slowing but gaining strength with each word.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself. But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me, for I am a free person. But I shall serve you in those ways you need. I vow to love you like my most prized treasure, for that is what you are, to put you in the highest place of honor and respect, to stand as your pillar of support and shoulder of strength, to cherish you and to care for you for all the days of my life.”

Bash wasn’t aware he had even started crying until he felt her warm hand wiping away his tears with a tearful smile of her own. It was his turn.

“I vow by the life that courses with within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, to take you to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen one. To desire you and be desired by you, to possess you, and be possessed by you, without sin or shame, for nothing can exist in the purity of my love for you. I promise to love you wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways as I respect myself.”

And before he knew it, they were married and the priest was reminding him that he could kiss his wife. His _wife_. It was that word that caused his heart to race more than anything else. She was finally his, and he hers. He knew the world – or at the very least Scotland, France, and England – would be watching their marriage with intense scrutiny. But as he had said to her before, he would always put her first. If that meant being a bad Prince and Duke, then so be it. She was it for him.

* * *

 

There were few moments during the celebration when they could properly talk to each other. Everyone wanted to wish them well. Every man wanted to dance with Mary and every woman with Bash. Bash found himself in awe, watching as she politely greeted each of the court members, introducing them to her husband, even as she struggled with the word initially.

“Fiona, this is my fi…husband, Sebastian, Prince of Scotland and Duke of Hamilton. Bash, this is Marquise Fiona. Her husband, Jacob, is the Marquess of Argyll.”

Fiona caught Sebastian’s eye, her own narrowing. “If you so much as think of hurting her, I know some very powerful people who can make sure you disappear without so much as a trace.”

Bash’s eyes widened, before he recovered. “Well, I did leave France without a trace so I imagine someone coming to kill me might have a challenge.”

“I like him,” Fiona pronounced with a smile.

“Good. Not that I needed your approval, Fi.” The younger woman left the line and Mary leaned into Bash with a sigh. “Fi is Irish and so a little high-spirited.”

“I like her. People need to continue to challenge me. Don’t raise your voice, improve your argument or something like that.”

Bash noticed how much Mary was leaning on Bash’s side and he moved slightly so she was resting against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. “I was going to remind you about not sleeping as I did earlier, but you look like you could sleep right now.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Mary…” He whispered in her ear. “I want to show you just how much I adore you. I want to show you the beauty I see in you. I want to worship every inch of you and taste you. But I don’t want you to fall asleep halfway through. If you need to sleep, we can wait until the morning or tomorrow night. After all, we have the rest of our lives.”

 _The rest of our lives_. Mary blushed up at Bash, kissing the side of his jaw. “Would you mind terribly if I did sleep at least for a few hours?”

“No, not at all.” He focused on the line in front of them, growing ever so slightly impatient at the wait. “How many more do we have before we can go?”

“We’ve gotten through the Marquis which leaves the Earls and the Lords.”

“And how many of them are there?”

“A lot.”

“Well then, let’s get this over with so you can sleep.”

* * *

 

In the early hours of the first night they spent in each other’s arms, Mary woke Bash up with a gentle shake.

“Mmmh?”

“Husband, I require affection.”

Bash smiled sleepily. “Do you, now, wife?”

“I do.”

“Well, then, I think there are some things I could do about that.” He sat up, pulling her up with him. He focused on her face, the smile erased for a moment. “This may hurt. So if anything feels wrong, if I say or do anything that makes you uncomfortable or hurt, let me know. I’ll stop.” Bash caressed her face. “You are everything to me and I wouldn’t know what to do if I hurt you.”

“Slow. Go slow, please?” Mary bit her lip, eyes down.

Bash titled her head up. “What is it, my love?”

“Bash, I’m…” She hesitated and looked down again.

“What? No secrets, remember?”

“I’m scared. What if I’m no good? What if I can’t make you happy?”

Bash wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her close to him. “Oh, Mary. I highly doubt you’re no good. And as for happy… how many times do I have to say that you’ve made me the happiest and luckiest bastard in the world by marrying me?” He kissed her forehead with a small smile. “You want slow, then let’s do slow. You make the first move when you’re ready.”

And with the patience of a saint, Bash showed Mary just how much he loved her. “I love you,” he said quietly to her as they lay together after it was over.

“Grandmamma was right,” Mary sighed.

“And what was Toni right about this time?”

“I really would fly on my wedding night.”

Bash chuckled. “She told me the same thing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: So, this didn’t turn out exactly how I wanted it, but I wanted to get it to you, regardless.
> 
> This will be the last chapter for a while. After the r--- plotline, I have had an increased disgust of the Reign writers, which has led to a decrease in inspiration to write this fic. If there are scenes you absolutely must see, by all means, leave it in a review and I will try my best to get it up.
> 
> Until then, thank you all for reading! Leave any comments, questions, suggestions, or other remarks in a review!


End file.
